The Ganges moans unlike any ocean can
But, come tumult, the voices are similar
Death is this sound of dying
Dead, all is the reap of prayer
A shade made of life
owing veneration
to what waves can bring to memory
In the renunciation of the river
wisdom is given repose and
passions are washed away to become sediment
The water, itself, is but a mask of the senses cleansed

A diseased breeze feeds
the sinless fires
in turn sooting the air with ancestry
making way for the eternal river
				—which is Heaven

Chanting at the steps
Doms of outcast wearied
Bodies burned of their stories

© 2005 by D. Garcia-Wahl. All rights reserved.